Shelter
by Kos-Mos607
Summary: He was taking a serious risk in coming here. It would have been safer to lay low in some seedy pub of some shack out in the country and try to patch up the damage done to his body, but he didn't care. He wanted to be here. SLASH


An old gift fic for x_posed_again that I finally managed to post on here.

All errors are mine (unbeta'd), so please shout 'em out if they bother you and I'll get around to fixing you.

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><p>The streets were dark, cold and devoid of any form of life. Shops were closed, their doors locked tight and shades drawn. All night Cafés were empty of customers and most workers. Not even a stray cat, mouse or toad could be seen scurrying around in the shadows.<p>

The city seamed…dead.

Marcus Flint tightened the cloak around himself, gritting his teeth when the cloth brushed against his wounded arm and side. Merlin that cruse was _burning_ him alive; it was going to spread to his back if he didn't hurry. He hated being in the open like this, exposed, alone, and with the price on his head –from both the Ministry and the Deatheaters—it just screamed _hex me (again)_. He moved swiftly along the sidewalk and between the large, bricked buildings, using their long shadows to reduce his chances of exposure.

His feet came to a stop after he passed five buildings, six to the west, five to the south; he knew the imaginary rout by heart. The small loft nestled between two small clothing shops sat silent but light could be seen through the soul window facing the street; its inhabitant was home. Good.

That was enough incentive for him to move to the small stairway between the shops. His fist hesitated when it was raised to the wooden door of the flat. Was he really doing this? He was taking a serious risk in coming here. It would have been safer to lay low in some seedy pub or some shack out in the country and try to patch up the damage done to his body, but he didn't care. He didn't want to be in at some random hole in the wall, he wanted to be here.

_He wanted to be here_.

Soft footfalls echo from the other side of the door. When it was pulled open, Flint forces himself to smile through the pain.

The man in the doorway is beyond confused. "Flint?"

"Wood," Flint whispers, still half-smiling, half-grimacing.

The lights inside the flat start to dance before his eyes and Wood's arms reach out to grab him before he can become acquainted with the cheap rug on the doorstep. He sags against Wood's strong body lifelessly, letting the smooth, confused voice follow him into the darkness.

Consciousness returns to him what feels like a lifetime later. His eyes feel heavy as he slowly blinks them open. The room is blurry and hard to recognize at first but once his eyes focus, he's able to make out Wood's silhouette sitting in the chair near his head.

"You dead yet?"

"Almost," Flint murmurs.

Something soft is under him and supporting his weight. A couch he soon realizes. Licking his dry, stale lips, Flint turns his head and looks at his arm. The hex marks are bandaged and throbbing much less. His eyes follow the trail up his arm to his bare chest which also has squares of gauze tapped to edges of the secondary burns.

"Ah, Wood, you softy."

"You stubborn arse. You're lucky to be alive," Oliver scoffed.

Flint moved his eyes to the ceiling, "Had worse."

"I can't keep doing this."

"You've been patching up Order blokes for a year now Wood."

"I can't keep patching _you_ up Flint," Oliver's voice is dark.

Flint feels confusion building inside of his head, "Fine, I'll limp somewhere else."

He hears Oliver's sigh loud and clear, "I haven't seen you in three months Flint." The scot dropped his head, "It's always like this, months go by without seeing you and then you always seem to stumble on my doorstep half dead."

"Not always," Flint protests, his pride hurt.

"Damn near always."

Oliver's tone was somber, hurt even. Flint mentally kicked himself and, very gingerly, rolled his feet. Pain gripped his arm and chest but he swallowed it down as he stood. He forced his feet to take him to the window, where Oliver stood. His steps didn't go unheard and obviously Wood was using all of his mental energy not to turn around.

"Wood…" Flint breathed. When the Scot didn't turn around, Flint moved closer, "Ollie."

Wood shivered visibly from the use of the pet name. Merlin, even after eight years he could still make Wood shy away or moan from it. Feeling daring despite his injuries, Flint raised a hand to Oliver's shoulder.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No," Oliver mumbled, not shying away from Flint's touch but at the same time, not curling into it like Flint hoped, "I want you to stop showing up on my doorstep half dead."

"I thought you enjoyed patching me up, having me at your mercy and all."

"Arse," Wood snorted, finally turning around.

The look on his face was enough to give Flint pause. Ah hell, he hated it when Wood had that face, the deep, emotional moopy one; it was annoying as well as effective. Groaning mentally, Flint raised his hand to the Scot's cheek, forcing their eyes to meet.

"You know why I'm doing this."

Wood melted into the hand, "Ya, it's a stupid reason that doesn't make a lick of sense."

"No, it doesn't," Flint finished, leaning closer, "But it's _my_ reason."

Before Wood could challenge his words, Flint ending the argument by pushing the former Keeper to the wall and closing the space between them. Oliver's breath is hot and moist and welcoming. Flint closes the distance by bringing his mouth to Wood's plump lips. Heat traveled through Marcus's tired body, warming his fingers and toes.

Wood was hesitant at first, his body still and his arms at his side, but after a sigh, his mouth opened, allowing Flint's eager tongue entry to his velvety mouth. Flint enjoyed his victory. Usually Wood fought him tooth and nail for every small inch. When the two of them shagged, it was the equivalent of two jungle cats pawing at each other, just a hell of a lot more arousing. They scratched, bit, pulled and crushed every inch of skin in reach.

Tonight though, tonight was going to be different. Flint knew he wasn't in any shape for anything too strenuous but he wasn't going to this moment pass by without enjoying it. He didn't know if he'd live to see another one.

He pressed closer, sliding his knee between the Scotsman's strong legs, rubbing at his groin. Oliver moaned against the contact, arching against him.

"Bastard," Wood hisses halfheartedly when they break for air.

"You love me for it."

He doesn't miss the way Wood's eyes light up at the word 'love', in eight years not once have either of them ever used it.

Their mouths come together a second time and then a third. Soon, Flint's nudging Oliver towards the bedroom and the former Keep doesn't fight in the slightest. He falls onto the rumpled bed and allows Flint's bulk to top him without protest.

The heat between their bodies is scorching and unreal. Flint's head is reeling from it. He paws at Wood's sparse clothing but the pain in his left arm refrains him from ripping it. Wood takes the hint, removing his thin t-shirt and sweat pants before teasingly sliding his fingers along Flint's bare chest, inching towards his pants.

Merlin, being touched by those warm hands is enough to remind Flint parts of himself are still human.

Their pace is slow. Flint takes his time, first nuzzling the bronze skin between Oliver's neck and shoulder and then gently biting and sucking until he draws deep, guttural moans. Wood's strong legs move around his hips, fitting perfectly, like they were made for the act.

Flint moves his lips down Wood's firm chest, licking, nibbling at the rows of firm muscle. His hands touch and caress every inch of toned skin. He damn near comes the instant he's inside Wood's hot, tight little hole— the only thing keeping him at full mast is the urge to draw the event out, make it last. Oliver is no help; he writhes against him, looking for more friction and trying to angel Flint's thrusts _just right_.

The sounds filling the small room were heavenly, Wood's voice moaning and swearing in his deep voice, the slick sounds of skin sliding against skin, Flint's groans to the deities above; this is Heaven, a perfect memory Flint was going to cherish for the next several months.

He comes with a horse cry, burying his face in Wood's neck. His body grew stiff as he collapses boneless against Wood's sweaty frame. The strong arms circling around his back was unexpected but very welcome. He let their warmth sink into his body and lull him into a deep rest.

For the first time in numerous months, Marcus Flint slept untroubled.

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><p>Flint made sure he was gone before sun up. Leaving a warm bed with an even warmer body was hard but he had no choice. He was a target, every step he took was watched by two different parties but he did have those rare moments where he was able to drop off the radar temporarily, like the previous night. He wasn't going to risk putting his last safe haven in danger; he wouldn't do that to Ollie.<p>

The streets were grey and empty of all life. Steeling himself, Marcus Flint pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and disappeared between the long shadows of the buildings, leaving the memories of Oliver Wood's warmth and touch behind him.


End file.
